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Some Nice Buttons

It is a crisp May morning and the bright Canadian sunlight streams in through Dashan’s bedroom window. As the Chairman Mao alarm clock strikes seven o’clock, the words to The East is Red blare out, and still retain the same impeccable tones that Dashan uttered on the day he recorded that song.

Dashan awakes and surveys his bedroom. Photographs of himself shaking hands with vice-presidents of various Chinese enterprises adorn the walls in between posters of the times he has dyed his hair blonde and played Matteo Ricci, Edgar Snow, Nazis in Tibet, and other great figures on CCTV. Without a moment’s hesitation, he leaps out of of bed and faces the mirror for his morning exercises.

“Ma, maaaa, maa, MA!” In pitch perfect Chinese, he repeats the four tones (the fifth neutral tone being beneath his contempt) again and again, safe in the knowledge that he hasn’t said a single one wrong. Then he takes one last look in the mirror, tells himself in Mandarin that he is the greatest, slips himself a wink, and heads off to the bathroom to brush his teeth with Darkie toothpaste.

Fifteen minutes later and Dashan, looking splendid in his authentic Republican-era gown, is in the dining room with a surly looking Dashan Junior. Breakfast conversations are always awkward affairs in the Rowswell household, and today is no exception. Dashan Junior tries his best to concentrate on his Captain Crunch cereal and ignore his father’s embarrasing attempts at small-talk.

“So…” begins Dashan, “You got English class at school today?”

Dashan Junior grunts in the affirmative.

“Well if you have, don’t forget your Dad’s trusty old Little Star Electronic Dictionary! Just the thing to push those grades up-up!” Dashan exclaims with a sunny grin.

Silently putting down his spoon, Dashan Junior gets up, makes his way across the table, and looks his dad firmly in the eye. Then, without a moment’s hesitation, he spits in his father’s eye and slaps him harshly across the face.

“I’ve told you a million times already – never talk to me ever again. Understand?” And with that, Dashan Junior grabs his bag and heads out the door.

Alone, a single droplet of his son’s green mucus dribbling down his still sore cheek, Dashan sighs and ponders what he will do with his life today. The piles of unsold Little Star electronic dictionaries stacked around the kitchen remind him that fame hasn’t brought total success to Toronto’s finest. Although he lives comfortably enough from the money earned from the few TV shows he occasionally travels to China for, the rest of his life is a dull and empty void. China proved impossible to live in after hitting the bigtime (he shudders while remembering a particular incident involving a Shenyang shopping centre, 50,000 socially inept university students, and the never-ending cry of “Can you use chopsticks yet?”), but Canada has not proven to be ideal either. So far, Mark’s fellow Canadians have been unappreciative of his efforts in learning standard Mandarin and representing the world’s largest Communist Party, and the empty months in between CCTV gigs have become drawn-out and mundane.

Yet Mark Rowswell never became the mighty Dashan with that kind of attitude. With a new determined strength of spirit, he stands up and heads out onto the sophisticated streets of Toronto in order to prove himself. Perhaps, he wonders, I might even be able to siphon some money off the Canadian government that was originally intended to be used in order to prevent Quebecois separatist movements. Again.

Dashan chooses not to head down to the Chinatown on Spadina Street. He realised long ago that the Happy Canada Lucky Dragon Restaurant was not interested in a white-skinned Chinese-speaking hospitality manager. While he ponders where to go, he stops at a cigarette kiosk and asks for a packet of Zhongnanhai.

“Never heard of them, we only sell Marlboros and Camels,” says the gruff guy behind the counter.

“Oh, yes, I forgot that they only sell them in China,” smiles Dashan. Then, rather desperately, he adds “That’s where I live you know! I’m a big star there!”

“That must be very nice for you,” sighs the cigarette seller.

“Anyway, must be going, zaijian! Ooops, I must have been in China for too long, I mean goodbye!” Dashan grins and skips away.

“Who was that?” asks another customer.

“It’s that fucking Mark Rowswell again,” spits the cigarette seller, “He’s been saying the same thing every day for the last three years.”

Pleased at his display at the cigarette kiosk, Dashan decides to follow his success at the food court in the basement of the Eaton Shopping Centre on Yonge Street. On his way, he spots a couple of Oriental appearance walking past, and nearly collapses in excitement when he sees the lady catching his eye and approaching him. Unfortunately, they only want to know the way to the CN Tower, and not ask for his autograph. Undeterred, Dashan heads on.

A fairly large crowd is gathered outside the Singapore Sam’s stall in the Eaton Centre Food Court. Using the skills he learned in Beijing, Dashan slips into the crowd and pushes his way to the way to the front. He spots a young teenager about to order beef noodles, and stops her before she can do so.

“Hey there!” shouts Dashan amiably to the bemused teenager, who looks like she is about to shout for the police. “I see you’re about to order the beef noodles! In China, they are known as niu rou mian, or rather: cow meat noodles. However, in China, the main meat is pork, although chick…”

“Please go away and don’t hurt me,” cries the girl, “You can take my money but just go!”

“…China has a history of 5000 years, and the language reflects that. Ru xiang sui su is a saying meaning when in Rome…”

“Please… please, leave me alone.”

“Hangzhou meanwhile is known for it’s beautiful West Lake, and Suzhou for it’s many…”

“THAT’S ENOUGH ROWSWELL! NOW GET OUT!”

The burly manager of Singapore Sam’s has finally spotted the disturbance Dashan has been causing, and emerges from behind the counter with a substantially large meat cleaver. As Dashan runs away, the manager picks up a pile of leaflets left behind, and throws them at Dashan’s head.

“AND TAKE YOUR ELECTRONIC DICTIONARY LEAFLETS WITH YOU!”

It has been an exhausting day. After the trials and tribulations of the cruel Canadian day, Dashan has returned to the comfort of his propaganda decorated bedroom, and weeps beneath his embroidered cushions of Tiananmen Square. Only here, beneath the cheap certificates proclaiming him to be one of the “Ten Most Friendliest Foreigners in Beijing Haidian District: 1991″, does he feel any of the respect so rightfully deserved to him. Don’t these people understand how well he speaks Mandarin? He didn’t run all the way to China and became a star so that he could be treated the same way as the bigger boys used to treat him at school! The fucking laowai bastards!

Dashan considers watching his favourite film Red Dawn again on DVD to cheer himself up, but is interrupted by the welcome sound of Mrs. Dashan returning home. At last: a friendly face. The Dashans darken the lights, slip off their clothes, and play a little romantic music. However, something is wrong…

Dashan whimpers disappointingly. “It’s no good honey, I just can’t…”

“What’s wrong cutie?” Asks Mrs Dashan in a sweet voice. “Do you need me to get out the hand pump and the CO2 cartridges again?”

Dashan shakes his head. “No. I need more than that. You know what I need.”

“NO! You promised me that last time would be the last time! It’s not normal Mark!”

“PLEASE baby, do it for me,” pleads Dashan.

With a sigh of defeat, Mrs Dashan grunts in agreement and reaches down to the special box kept beneath the Rowswell family bed. Five minutes later, Dashan – dressed in a monkey costume with a hole cut away around the ringpiece – is being fucked up the arse by Mrs Dashan with a seven inch strap-on dildo and a rubber mask of Hu Jintao. Nearby, Dashan’s personal recording of The East is Red blares out again from the Chairman Mao alarm clock.

What is Christmas? It’s a little Robin Red Breast shivering in the winter cold. It’s a hungry orphan being led into a shed. It’s a lone snowman whose nose-carrot is missing because it has been stolen and subsequently eaten by a gypsy thief. However, most importantly it’s the grand finale of the Sinocidal Christmas Panto, which even cable destroying earthquakes cannot prevent.

(This final act is brought to you by Gordon’s Gin)

Act the Last: In which Hu Jintao takes a dump on a futuristic toilet.

SCENE: Last week we left Hu Jintao trapped in the Cavern of Chinese Delights with only a mysterious lamp for company. As the curtain raises, Hu is sat crying atop a mountain of Kenny G albums

HU: Bah Mantou! What am I going to do trapped in this cave for all eternity? Without me at the helm, who is going to send out the orders to knock down Beijing’s last remaining hutongs, and shake hands with the Foreign Minister of the Solomon Islands on his next trip to Beijing?

(He whips out his diminutive penis and stares at it in his hand)

HU: No. Even though I may be stuck here forever with only Pizza Hut discount coupons and 1000 year old eggs for company, I should still lead a socialist lifestyle and say no to masturbation. I know, I’ll rub this lamp instead.

(He rubs the lamp, and astonishingly, a genie pops out)

GENIE: Take a wild fucking guess who I am. Come on, you know the score, three wishes and I can go back home. And if you think I’m going to sing and dance like Robin Williams did in that Disney film, you are very much mistaken my friend.

HU: Ok, for my first wish I would like a bottle of XO Remy Martin brought to me by a girl in a Tiger Beer leotard.

(The genie snaps his fingers and the wish is granted)

HU: For my next wish, I would like a can of 7-up to wash it down with.

(The wish is granted and Hu drinks the repulsive cocktail and plays dice with the Tiger Beer girl for 45 minutes)

HU: And finally, I would like you to send me hundreds of years into the future so that I can meet the Representative of Harmonious Christmas Future. I want to see how wonderful Chinese society is in the future thanks to my well-thought out policies.

(The curtain closes and then reopens to a new scene set in the 24th and a half century. It looks a lot like present-day Beijing, only dirtier, and for some reason an animated cartoon duck is flying about in the background. A sinister hooded figure dressed all in black awaits Hu Jintao as he is lowered by string onto the stage)

HU: Finally! This must surely be the new golden age! An age when China has risen again to her rightful place as master of the universe! An age where the GDP doubles EVERY SECOND! An age where all the people of China can live in peace and harmony as long as they don’t question the Communist Party! An age where piped music comes from the ground everywhere on Earth! I guess that you are the Representative of Harmonious Christmas Future.

(The Representative nods his head solemnly)

HU: This is great! Representative, show me some of the great things about this all-new Cyber-China!

(The Representative transports Hu Jintao to Tiananmen Square. Nationalities of every minority are dancing around in national dress and a huge sign proclaims “Only 972 days to the Second Beijing Olympics)

HU: Wonderful, wonderful, I can almost smell the harmoniousessnessness.

(Suddenly, the minorities stop dancing and start firing laser beams out of their eyes and burning down buildings. A tree is blown up which reveals the sign to be actually saying “Only 972 days to the second time Beijing will be allowed to compete in the new Olympics”)

HU: Noooooo! Oh, the huge manatee! What’s going on?

TIBETAN: Where have you been worthless Han scum? As you know, all the real minorities of China were persecuted to death years ago, and you Han created robot models of us to cover up the truth. But now we will rise against you! Come my brothers, let us combine. Tibetan…

MIAO: Miao!

UYGHUR: Uyghur!

MONGOL: Mongol!

HUI: Hui!

TIBETAN: Together we shall form UltraSuperMechaMinority!

(They form together to create a giant ethnic robot and begin trampling all over the Forbidden City)

HU: Bah Mantou! How can this be? Where is the government? Who is leading the country during this hour of crisis?

REPRESENTATIVE: I can answer that: for I am the new all-powerful leader of China.

(He pulls away his cloak to reveal he is none other that Tom Cruise)

HU: Tom fucking Cruise? B,b,b,b, but… how?

TOM: Actually, I’m the second cloned version of the original Tom Cruise, and I am head of the joint Scientology-Falun Gong government which took power in China years after your death. Thanks to your ridiculous ideologies of harmonious societies and Market-Leninism, the people of China were willing to accept any old rubbish, and so took our chance.

HU: (Weeping) No, no… it can’t be true. I have seen the past, and I have seen the future, and now I realise how wrong I have been. I promise to embrace the spirit of Christmas, I promise to be a good man, I promise to make China a better place. Just please, take me back!

(There is a wibbly-wobbly noise like the kind Garth and Wayne used to make in Wayne’s World, and Hu is back on his chair in Zhongnanhai)

HU: I’m back! Oh, I’m so glad! Was it all a dream? No, I don’t think so, it seemed so real.

(Wen Jiabao re-enters)

WEN: Oh great leader, where have you been? We were so worried.

HU: You would not believe me young Wen. I have been to the past and seen the first Christmas in China, and I have been to the future and seen the consequences for our country if things don’t change.

WEN: So then, can me and the lads have the day off?

HU: Bah mantou, absolutely not! Get my bags ready and I want a ticket for the next flight to Canada as soon as possible. I’ve seen what the future has in store for China, and there’s no way I’m staying here for it. See you later, fuckfaces!

(Hu Jintao runs off to steal as many public funds as possible. Wen Jiabao is left on stage to deliver the final speech)

WEN: Well, folks, you may think that I’m annoyed that Hu failed to see the true meaning of Christmas and deserted the country, but actually I’m not. You see, in my spare time I’m actually the Representative of Developing Christmas Present, and I got together with my other two mates so that we could scare Hu Jintao off and I could be leader. So you see boys and girls, it was a happy ending after all. For me anyway. My first rule will be to ban Christmas and place emphasis on getting drunk and receiving bribes at Chinese New Year instead. Now get out all of you before I have you all shot.

(The lights go out, there is the sound of gunfire, and then an eternal eerie silence)
The End

In the last act of Hu Jintao and the Three Represenatives, we placed a vicious Communist dictator in a cuddly family friendly situational pantomime, and asked you to suspend belief when we said Jiang Zemin had a soul. Now read on!

Act the Second: In which our hero takes a trip back in time to a humiliated past

SCENE: A British gentleman’s club that has been built on the ashes of a destroyed Cantonese yamen. Pictures of Queen Victoria hang on the walls, and the distinct smell of over-boiled vegetables fills the air. A number of crusty old Englishmen sit in huge armchairs smoking cigars made from first editions of the Tao Te Ching. Rosie O’Donnell, dressed as Widow Twankey, enters the stage and introduces the second act.

(ROSIE leaves in order to find somebody who “grasps” her sense of humour)

ENGLISHMAN 1: (Putting down his newspaper) Look here Caruthers, you know what I find very very funny?

ENGLISHMAN 2: (Smoking a pipe) What would that be, my dear sir?

ENGLISHMAN 1: A man wearing women’s clothing.

ENGLISHMAN 2: Steady on Grayson; don’t get ahead of yourself, man.

(Hu Jintao and the Representative of Christmas Humiliated Past materialise by the fireplace with the stuffed panda’s head hanging over it. The Representative’s features are disguised by his white hood)

HU: I want answers and I want them now. Just what in the sweet name of a Harmonious Society is exactly going on here? You wouldn’t be Taiwanese, would you?

REPRESENTATIVE: I am the Representative of Christmas Humiliated Past, and this is Christmas Eve 1857.

HU: 1857? Bah Mantou! If this is 1857 than I’m an unelected head of government who graduated from Tsinghua University with a degree in hydraulic engineering in 1964. Anyway, who are you exactly and why have you brought me here?

REPRESENTATIVE: I have brought you here to these years when Christmas was first introduced into China to teach you the true meaning of this special time. And as for who I am…

(The Representative throws of his cloak to reveal that he is none other than Zhang Ziyi)

ZHANG: …I am Zhang Ziyi! And I took this part because my last period role was a pile of poo. But look around you Hu Jintao, what do you see?

HU: A couple of fat old men sat round drinking tea. It looks like the last meeting of the National People’s Congress.

ZHANG: Yes, but look beyond all that. See how these foreigners from afar have waged war on the Motherland and humiliated our people. Do you know why these Englishmen came here?

HU: To learn more about our 5000 years of history and to stand in line at the Bank of China whilst others push in?

ZHANG: Your hairdye has affected your brain Hu Jintao. These men made war on China because we would only accept silver for their goods, and they were forced to find other ways to do business with us. Even now, your government is committing the same mistake by hording foreign currency and refusing to devalue the yuan. And besides, in 1857 we only had 4850 years of history.

HU: Bah Mantou! I demand that you take me back to Zhongnanhai. The Supergirls Contest is on in five minutes and I want to see if another androgynous dyke wins.

ZHANG: You may return to the present, but first I ask you to do me a favour. In the next room is a very precious lamp, which was stolen by the British during this time. I want you to go in and retrieve it for me.

(Hu enters the next room while Zhang Ziyi waits by the door. In the room is a multitude of wonderful Chinese objets d’art)

HU: Wow! I’ve never seen so many beautiful things! Snoopy car chair covers, Hello Kitty toilet roll holders, over-sized Lacoste belts, plastic cats which wave their paws, and fibreglass rods with neon fireworks coming out of the top! Such beauty! Ah, here’s that lamp she was asking for.

ZHANG: (Shouting) Give me the lamp now, and I promise your death will be a painless one!

HU: Well, if that’s the case, no. The problem with you Zhang Ziyi is that it was exactly this kind of unsubtle performance that ruined your career in The Banquet.

ZHANG: Then you are doomed to be trapped within this room forever!

(Zhang casts a spell on the door so that it was made in Gansu. It thus closes, breaks, and can never be opened again)

HU: Oh no! What am I going to do?

How will Hu Jintao escape from the Cavern of Chinese Delights? How are we going to fit the other two Representatives in our next and final act? And how the hell did a mediocre pastiche of A Christmas Carol suddenly become a mediocre pastiche of Aladdin? All will be made clear in our final extravaganza act: “Hu Jintao in the 24th and a half Century”! In colour!

As a special Christmas treat to both of our readers, Sinocidal is proud to present a very special pantomime with Chinese characteristics. Featuring a full chorus of Communists, Supernatural Beings, Buddhists, Friendlies, Ethnic Minorities, Supergirls, laobaixing, Confucians, the foreigners, and more things than you can shake the Official Sinocidal Shaking Stick(TM) at. So get the kids around the laptop, hand the dog over to the city authorities, and enjoy this seasonal story of how one very special President discovered the true meaning of Christmas.

Hu Jintao and the Three Representatives
(Or A Christmas 民歌)

Act the First: In which Hu Jintao receives a surprise visitor.

SCENE: It is Christmas Eve in Zhongnanhai, although you would be hard pressed to know it. Hu Jintao sits behind his huge desk made out of skulls, with only the light from the carcasses of rabid dogs burning on the fireplace to guide him. Scrolls of paper hang over tall in-trays and out-trays which are labelled “Arrested Officials” and “About To Be Arrested Officials” respectively. Andy Lau enters the stage dressed as a giant turkey and breaks into song:

ANDY LAU: ‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through Zhongnanhai,
Homosexuals were being persecuted, even those that were bi.
The Death Lists were hung by the chimney with care,
With copies made out to Bush, Putin, and Blair.

HU: Bah Mantou! We’ll have no jollity here! This is Zhongnanhai, not some Shanghainese brothel full of Japanese sex tourists!

(Pulls out a gun and shoots Andy Lau. A nation cheers.)

HU: Anybody would think that Christmas was a festival designated by the state for approval. We are a proud nation with 5000 years of history: we have no need for some foreign holiday celebrating the birth of some waidiren who was nailed against a giant number ten.

(Wen Jiabao scurries into the room and kowtows before Hu’s desk)

WEN: Oh Great Munificent Sovereign Who Upholds the Heavens…

HU: For Marx’s sake, get up off the floor. That carpet was made in Hebei and won’t be able to endure your knees rubbing against it.

WEN: Sorry, your benevolence. It was just that, with it being Christmas and all, the lads and me were wondering if we might possibly have the day off tomorrow so we could go out and give alms to the poor…

HU: Do my fucking ears deceive me? (Pulls out a baby panda from his drawer and dashes its brains out on the corner of his desk) You see that? You made me do that. And every minute you don’t work, another of these baby pandas has to die. Christmas Day indeed! Anybody would think you didn’t have enough holidays as it is.

WEN: But sir, the only time we’ve had off this year was a couple of hours during National Day. And even then you made us go to the Mao Zedong Memorial Hall along with the rest of the population.

HU: (Pulls out another baby panda and stamps on its head) Now look: there’s only three Friendlies left, so get out of my sight and help to increase our nation’s GDP.

WEN: Yes your Dyed-Black-Hairyness.

HU: Bah Mantou! If it’s not pregnant workers wanting the afternoon off to have babies, it’s disloyal cadres trying to undermine my legacy.

(Suddenly, the lights dim and a strange fog begins to emit all around. An eerie voice booms out from above)

HU: What? What’s this? Is somebody playing those Karen Mok songs again? Who is this?

VOICE: It is I, the ghost of Jiang Zemin!

(Jiang Zemin materialises in the middle of the room. He is dressed in revealing red negligee and chained down to a thousand books.)

HU: Impossible! You died during an overdose of karaoke at Buckingham Palace! And why are you wearing red negligee?

JIANG: It’s the weekend. Now Hu Jintao, listen to me. You have forgotten the true meaning of Christmas, so tonight the Three Representatives of Christmas Humiliated Past, Developing Present, and Harmonious Future will visit you and teach you what this day really means.

HU: Bah Mantou! I know already that the true meaning of Christmas is just another method by the imperialist West to contaminate us with their spiritual pollution.

JIANG: Heed my words Hu Jintao. Heed my words, or like me, you too will be burdened for all eternity with a thousand copies of your own memoirs. Remember the Three Representatives! FAREWELL! Farewell! farewell…!

HU: Why are you repeating yourself and pretending to fade away? I can still see you.

JIANG: Yeah, sorry. We spent the special effects money on another empty skyscraper in Pudong, so this is the best we can do. Anyway, see ya!

(Jiang disappears)

HU: What nonsense! Three representatives! As if anybody could believe such rubbish! (Note to reader: this is the subtle satire that we promised) I shall spend this Christmas Eve like I’ve spent every other Christmas Eve: meeting the Prime Minister of some obscure Pacific Island and getting them to agree to the One China Policy.

(A pillar of smoke appears and a voice booms out)

VOICE: Take heed President! For I am the Representative of Humiliated Past!

HU: Crikey! What are the chances of that happening, eh?

Is Andy Lau really dead? Does Hu Jintao really dye his hair? Will the spirit of Santa prevail in Zhongnanhai, or will the only “ho ho ho” be a trio of AIDS infested prostitutes from Henan? Tune in next week viewers for the second act of our Sinocidal Pantomime: “Widow Twankey meets the All-China Woman’s Federation”!

I won’t bore you with a lot of blah blah blah about Christmas. You’re probably fed up with the whole thing by now and I don’t blame you. Unless of course you live in a non-Christian country, or under a rock, or in China, all of which amount to the same vis-a-vis Yule. Here, deep in the Arsehole At The End Of The World, known by brave travelers as A Bloody Awful Place, and by those who have never visited simply as China, Christmas is officially banned. Students caught celebrating it are expelled from skool or university and their families put on a watch list. Officials are sacked, shot and their families sent a bill for the bullet. I merely put a red coat and hat on the statue of that other fat, red cunt Mao Zedong we have outside the factory reception building.

I fancied going to a show or performance this year, something to take my mind off the never-ending pollution (now officially known as “Fog” according to the stern, Poe-faced man from The Government who personally came to see me, and who was surprised when I laughed in his face and told him to fuck off pronto chop-chop quick-quick) and endless political bullshit that we’ve been enduring since the current monster came to power. I saw that Rhythm Of The Dance was in town, so booked a ticket.

Now, I’m not normally one for all that tippy-tap nonsense, but I figured if anyone could pull it off, it would be the old bog-leapers. And Irish music is generally the best music for the chronically depressed to listen to, as evidenced by thousands of generations of chronically depressed Irish peasants. And, after all, it is a world famous production. Which might just be slightly taking advantage of the success of Lord Of The Dance, which just a wee bit took advantage of the success of Riverdance. But whatever, even a copy of a copy of some Paddy tip-tap is better than what we normally get in China.

And, indeed, it really was a good performance, and one that I heartily recommend you go and see. In fact, the only thing about it that wasn’t first-rate, was the fact that is was performed in China, at the very expensive, and very imposing, Shanghai Grand Theatre.

The sound system was shit, with the speakers distorting the sound badly and the levels so out of whack that some instruments and voices you couldn’t hear while others hurt your ears. The lighting was atrocious, with the idiots running the spots never able to find the performers or keep up with them. One of the computer-controlled lights had either been programmed wrong, or was in need of repair, or had recently been repaired by a Chinaman. And two of the ushers had brought along laser pointers in order to try to blind the performers and distract the audience, which even for Chinese is a new low. If you fired the entire staff and replaced them with kindergartners, it would be a damned sight better.

SO, this year my Christmas Message is aimed at anyone thinking of bringing any of The Arts to China:

“Don’t come, for your own sake. But also, please do come, because no matter how much the Chinese will try to fuck you up, there are some of us here who need you badly, and it’s getting harder every day.”

To the National Dance Company of Ireland, a special Thank You from me. And to all the rest of you, a special Thank You from our very own Christmas Eve:

Eight Minutes
By ChouChou
(Or: China is a never-ending empty hole of nothingness and despairing misery.)

Kings and Emperors may build colossal monuments to themselves, and the poor may breed and spread their spawn in a vain hope to perpetuate their worthless genes, but ultimately all life derives from the sun. Glorious and magnificent, the sun treads the same slow path that it has carried out for millions of years, always burning bright and providing warmth and light for the billions of species that depend on it.

Yet, the only truth in this finite universe is entropy, and even the shining gods of the celestial heavens must one day burn out and extinguish. Ozymandias-like, all things must return to the vacuum from whence they came. When the great day finally comes, our Mother Sun will consume itself and leave nothing but a cold and empty void. Eight minutes of sunlight will be all the poor wretches of Earth have left once the sun disappears.

Eight minutes. The last dying rays of the sun will take eight minutes to race across the emptiness of space and reach our tiny insignificant home. Though the ignorant masses trapped within the confines of their own environment will not realise it, the sun that nourishes them will already be dead, and the warmth and comfort they enjoy for the moment will swiftly be replaced with an eternal and deathly darkness.

Eight minutes. Just as before, the gullible and the hopeful will pile away their savings into imaginary stock markets that cannot be seen or touched. The ancients prayed to the ephemeral gods of old, modern man prays to the equally ephemeral markets of now. They will cheat and lie and kill and steal, all for that extra ounce of gold that can be thrown into the stock market and hopefully multiplied into a fortune. They will dream of luxurious mansions and fast cars, each mansion and each car bigger and better than the one belonging to their neighbour whom they despise so very much. With each expected penny, the foolish and the boastful will thrust out their stomachs and proclaim their line successful for ten thousand generations. Yet, as they dance and sing amidst the bank queues and dream of perpetual profit, the darkness from the dead sun will be heading towards them with deadly certainty, destroying their naive delusions of grandeur forever. As the curtain falls, the poor will see their money become worthless first, but even the rich will find their fortunes useless when all surrounding life has died.

Eight minutes. The darkness will follow the light and will inevitably and eternally fall upon the Earth like a crushing blow. Unaware, and so blind to what is about to happen, the people below will boast and lie as they have always done before. In newspapers, journalists will talk of millennia old civilisation as if it was a never-ending concept that will expand beyond the stars. Using words which have been used countless times during the unoriginal history of man, they will hold up the supposed virtues of their hollow culture, oblivious to the fact that a few thousand years is nothing compared to the grandeur of infinity. On the Internet, the lonely and inexperienced will write out fantasies describing why certain groups of people are better than other groups of people, even though all of them are doomed to oblivion once the light ends. And in society, the greatest stage to which all humanity looks upon, great sporting events and performances will be held in futile defiance of fact. “Look at us!” The people will cry. “Look how wonderful we are! Look how strong and rich we have become!” Though the words will sound strong and confidant, they will be exposed as mere lies once the eight minutes have passed.

After eight minutes everything will come crashing down; finally and forever. But we will be blind to the fate approaching us, because we cannot see beyond the light we are already bathed in. As the eight minute deadline approaches, our brother planets of Mercury and Venus – symbols of Love and Communication – will have already been plunged into darkness and consumed by the void, even though some would argue that these two virtues ceased to exist a long time ago in certain areas of our own planet. And when the darkness falls, which it inevitably will, there will still be those who still seek to deny it. People will stand up and proclaim the blackness to be nothing but a temporary condition, or even a conspiracy created by bad elements in society or people from faraway countries. Some may even erect lights and lanterns in an effort to dispel the cold and dark from their homes, but eventually these too will fail as everything on the planet dies.

In some cultures, tomorrow literally means “a brighter day”. We assume that the light and warmth we enjoy now will always be delivered from that great fiery globe in the sky, that we as a race and the things we have created can only continue to grow in the endless brightness that we see all around. But one day, one inevitable and terrible day, the sun will stop shining, and we will only have eight minutes before everything we have created falls apart. The dark day is coming, and our bubbles will not protect us.

Friend Coffee Shop Manager lounges in his deep leather chair. Before him lie the disparate elements of his new promising Starbucks-style coffee shop: Atmospheric Just Like Seattle Coffee Shop Number 47. It is his job to combine them into a seamless whole. Stirring the crackling logs afire in the grate, he bends to his task.

The musical consultant, he notes, has excelled himself. Reflecting the quintessential Jazz/Blues style of the 1950’s so typical of this type of establishment, the soundtrack blends big band overtures with sultry Billie Holliday lyrics. Background samples intersperse each track, such as Sarah Vaughn jiving with the compere, or a nostalgic announcer introducing Frank Sinatra to complete the aural picture. Friend Coffee Shop Manager stirs his Kenyan coffee beans with a silver spoon and, smiling whimsically at the connection, turns his attention to the coffee mugs and assorted cutlery recently received from the utensils distributer. Quickly taking on an expert’s eye, he examines the samples. It is, of course, superlative. The classy pastel tones of the chosen coffee mugs contrast excitedly with the bright clutter of the quasi-beat generation style of the menu which recalls the work of Jack Kerouac. Skillful finishes to the chalk blackboard breathe life into an otherwise tired cliche; Friend Coffee Shop Manager is particularly impressed with the way a few simple touches imply both sophistication and a timeless elegance to the black and chalky background.

A muffled laugh distracts Friend Coffee Shop Manager’s attention. He glances through the Victorian service hatch of his open kitchen to see that some of the trial customers are enjoying themselves throughly with the selection of art and music books he has displayed for their perusal. With a hearty guffaw, he lies back in his comfortable Ikea chair with a sheaf of notes recounting present customer feedback. It is indeed an involving read, and the ashes are heavy in the traditional log fire before he lays the binder aside.

Finally, Friend Coffee Shop Manager scans through his coffee menu. He is rightly pleased with himself; it is a vibrant yet inclusive selection of world coffees. He congratulates himself on his foresight to include a variety of exotic teas for Asian customers, so making the sociable integration of customers from differing backgrounds a simple affair. Fascinatingly, despite knowing the shop intimately, Friend Coffee Shop Manager’s brief examination to confirm all is in order stretches into a thorough audit, and quiet has fallen upon the attractive front garden before he has completed his investigations.

Only one thing remains. An additional complement of light refreshments to brighten the already excellent drinks menu. Some snacks, perhaps, that foreign customers yearn for during their travels abroad? Friend Coffee Shop Manager nods slowly. But what kind of refreshments would be appropriate? He paces around his desk. He stops before a specific bookcase; his hand idly selects a certain book. It is a bound volume of the history of sandwiches, with many chapters highlighting the grandeur that a good beef steak is held in regard in many western cultures. Friend Coffee Shop Manager rifles through the pages, unconsciously absorbing the woodcut illustrations of classic American cuisine; a brief history of the Earl of Sandwich; the likes and dislikes of 20th century Europeans; and the rise of the fast food enterprises. Friend Coffee Shop Manager closes the book, noting the illustration of a sirloin steak dripping in gravy caught on the front cover. A lightbulb snaps on in his mind. A furious bout of redesigning the food menu ensues, and everything is finally complete. Now, as the customer browses through the menu of Atmospheric Just Like Seattle Coffee Shop Number 47, if one is hungry they may choose a nice beef steak sandwich covered in either raspberry or strawberry jam. Also, if they fancy a drink, they may order it alongside two bottles of Chivas for only 888 yuan.

You’ve just arrived in your 5-Star room at the Shanghai Hilton and unpacked your fancy new Apple laptop. As you pull the top off the mini bottle of Hennessey XO, you finally turn to your instructions from the editor back home. 2000 words by Monday about the important issues facing China today. Easy.

But two days have passed and you are still staring at a blank screen. You’re experiencing a stretch of writer’s block as long as the Great Wall of China and the deadline is hanging over your head like the proverbial Sword of Damocles. It seems that more research than flicking through a copy of Wild Swans in the airport is needed after all.

Sound familiar? Then you, my journalist friend, need the Sinocidal fully patented guide on how to write that Pulitzer Prize winning China article. Simply follow the steps below, and you’ll have your name splashed across the front page of every newspaper in Britain faster than a convicted child molester.

Title
Each and every good China article begins with a carefully considered and well thought-out title. “Cor, what a scorcher” may be good enough for a tabloid article about heatwaves in April, but if you’re going to impress your fellow tofu-eating, goatee bearded colleagues at the Grauniad office (not to mention that hot feminist who writes angry columns about women’s issues), then you’re going to need to think up a snappy headline. Thankfully, titles for China articles follow a strict guideline, and a catchy media soundbite can be created in seconds thanks to the Sinocidal (TM) China-headline-o’matic. Just choose one of the words from column A, and match it with a random word from column B.

A
China
The Dragon
The East
1.3 Billion People
Red Star

B
Rises
Century
Awakes
Stirs
Does Dallas

The only exception to this rule is when writing an article about the clash of western commercialism against old-style Communist practices, in which case the title “Mickey Maos” must be used.

Interview a taxi driver
You may well be isolated from the unwashed masses of China in your luxury Shanghai hotel room, but for God’s sake, you don’t want the brainless idiots who read your newspaper to know that. A good journalist never loses his common touch: after all, the whole point of your article is to pretend that you care about “the Chinese people themselves” and how unfairly the system treats them. Bob Geldof has made a career about appearing to care for African people, and hopefully you can do the same for Chinese people, earn loads of money, and buy a big fuck-off house in the south of France. There’s no way you actually want to meet any of the Chinese people though. It’s OK to let some of them clean your hotel room, but any more contact than that and you risk catching tuberculosis. So you might as well make use of the only Chinese person you ever come into contact with – the taxi driver – and pass off his opinions as your own.

– Interest rate predictions for the coming quarter? Ask a taxi driver.
– Improving Sino-Japanese relations in the post-Koizumi era? Ask a taxi driver.
– Financial aid to developing African economies? Ask a taxi driver, but leave out his politically incorrect opinions regarding “those dark folk”. The students in the SOAS reading room don’t like reading about that kind of thing.

If you can’t find a taxi driver whose political views match those of your readers, then just make one up. Call him Mr. Wang, inform your public that he only earns a hundred dollars a month, and they’ll believe any old crap you write. “I’ve been following the latest series of Big Brother with interest,” says Beijing cab driver Mr. Wang (43), “though Jade Goody’s recent behaviour has been quite reprimandable. Still, it’s hard to follow all this celebrity gossip when I only earn five yuan a year.”

Contrasts
Nobody really understands China. Especially you, because you hadn’t even heard of the country until last week when you failed to be chosen as a New York correspondent. So get around the whole problem of writing difficult conclusions by just presenting a series of contrasting images. Here are some easy ones to start you off:

• A statue of Mao with an advert for Coca-Cola in the background.
• An elderly Chinese man, with a long wispy beard, sat on a bench next to a fibreglass model of Ronald McDonald.
• A sign saying “Promote Environmental Awareness” stuck in a field full of nuclear waste and dead babies.
• A girl with a mobile phone walking past a tramp.
• A description of a fashionable Shanghai socialite who hangs out at Starbucks and likes KFC, quickly followed in the next paragraph by a description of a former prostitute who works 5 million hours a day in a condom factory for just two grains of rice a year.

Vague Conclusion
When you’ve finished writing your pointless and vague summary of obvious contrasts, follow it up with an equally pointless and vague conclusion. Write how some things point to x, whilst some other things point to y. “The future, it seems, is still uncertain for China” is always a good one to sign off with, especially because other countries are all governed by psychic fortune tellers who know everything that will happen for the next 200 years.

If, for whatever reason, you want to try something different (perhaps this is not your first time to write a China article. It might be your second, say), highlight the enormous population of China, and then focus on a single individual. That way you’ve covered all the bases and it looks like you care. You could even try and combine both conclusion styles if you’re feeling cocky. For example:
“It seems that the future is looking bright for the 1.3 billion people who make up the world’s most populous nation. But for Li Hui – who is still working at the condom factory for just two grains of rice a year – that future is still unclear.”

Follow the above guidelines and you can’t go wrong. Before long, you’ll be printing the words “CHINA EXPERT” on your business card and you’ll have your own book about the Chinese political landscape listed under the Lonely Planet Guide to China’s list of recommended reads.

If you have followed this blog for any length of time, you will be only too aware that we here at MLHQ stand squarely and solidly behind the position on the field of play, that is referred to as ‘reasonableness’. Oh yes indeed, we have dedicated ourselves to being reasonable and moderate in all things. And so it continues to this day.

With that in mind, let us turn our gaze to the very unreasonable state of fashion in what is laughably referred to as The Celestial Empire. Now, I am not one to tell others how to live, as long as they do so in a civilised manner. Yet there is unquestionably and certainly a need in this modern world for someone to play the role of a fashion inspector of sorts – a Fashion Policeman, if you will. I am sure I am not the first person who thought so.

And we here at MLHQ know a thing or to about what looks good. We know, for instance, that Adolf Hitler was the only man ever to look good in the back of a convertible. If you are in the back of a convertible and you are a man, but you are not Adolf Hitler, then kindly step out, at once.

A Fashion Policeman – Fashionista? – should have powers that are clearly and sharply defined. We would not, for instance, want to have folks fined merely for wearing last years’ Calvin Klein jeans, would we? Not when the real crime being committed was the wearing of Calvin Klein jeans, of any year. Obviously, there was a time when an empty brassiere was considered acceptable – though in the modern era it really ought to be a capital offense: It’s false advertising, at the very least.

The wearing of glasses without lenses is wrong, clearly, but it needn’t warrant more than a small fine, nor would taking a selfie, though in combination the dual crimes of wearing glasses without lenses whilst taking a selfie really ought to be punishable by being shot in front of your own children. And when I say “ought to be”, I mean “on my land you will be”.

As I say, reasonableness in all things. If you want to be dressed like a street whore, that’s fine – as long as you actually are a street whore. And in my street, that really is practically everybody. So that’s all good. Want to dress like a Middle Kingdom version of Princess Leia (with the brass bra and Heidi von Glockenstrudle hairstyle, obviously)? Not a problem, as long as you actually are either a/ Princess Leia; b/ actually are Carrie Fisher; or c/ attending one of those events where you dress up in weird clothes and call it ‘cosplay’ because ‘German hardcore porn’ would freak your mother out.

And, if you want to have a shoe covered in rabbit fur, at least have the decency to ensure the rabbit is dead before you slide your boot up it’s arse.

Sept 1st: Jungle is Massive Night at Club Babyface*
Find that minimal isn’t enough for your dancefloor fix? Had enough of monotonous trance synth-lines that have sold out to “The Man”? Wanna take a pill drop back to the true progressive era of sub sonic woofer house music? If you want an indication of where Gen-X dance music is going next, then join us as we invite DJ Nobody’s Ever Fucking Heard Of But His Name Ends In A “Z” all the way from Amsterdam to set off a selection of fire and car alarms as crowds of Chinese businessmen and prostitutes listen indifferently and play dice instead. Chivas and Green Tea sets start at 888 RMB and come with a complementary grape.
* Although the management of Babyface will try its utmost, Babyface can not guarantee the presence of black people at any publicised event.

September 4th: Ladies Who Lunch
The Ladies Who Lunch will this Tuesday be dining at a delightful American themed diner recently opened just off People’s Square. Serving a homemade selection of traditional American fayre in a comfortable, yet trendy, environment; this guarantees to be a welcome alternative to our usual weekly drudge of holistic therapy and alternative yoga*. This week our selected book will be the back cover of a pirated Desperate Housewives DVD, and as we complain endlessly about how difficult it is to find good service in Shanghai these days, we will consider sending the waiter’s tip this week to the Urumqi Orphanage for Christian Children, before crossing the road in order to avoid eye contact with a gang of street beggars.
* Please contact Judy for the address of the People’s Square McDonald’s Branch.

September 8th: The Shanghai Expat’s Club September Gathering
Exactly seven lonely foreign businessmen who have been in China for no longer than two months each join together in the lobby bar of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel and try and kid themselves that this is called “networking”.

September 12th: English Corner
“Can you use chopsticks?”
“Are you a Christian?”
“Can I invite you to a dinner?”
If the above questions don’t make you want to immediately stab yourself in the eye with a rusty coathanger, and if for whatever fucked up reason you’re desperate and lonely enough to even entertain the thought that being the only foreigner surrounded by a group of two hundred Chinese students could ever be anything other than a spiritual experience roughly equivalent to having a 20 foot Native American totem pole covered in faulty cheese graters forcefully penetrate your quivering anal hole, then please come along to the Number 94 Middle School English Corner.
COME.

September 15th: Hash House Harriers Fun Run
Nestled in between Chongming Island and Pudong, Hengsha Island (literally: “Clean Island”) is an unspoilt patch of paradise untouched by Shanghai’s encroaching development. Join the Drinking Club with a Running Problem (!!!!!!!!) as we spend two days running, enjoying the scenery, drinking beer out of our shoes, and finally getting into an argument with a farmer for pissing all over his crops whilst a 4 foot tall butterball from Ohio attempts to drag you away by screaming “Just leave it Brian, he ain’t fucking worth it!”

September 18th: Opening Night of a New “Western” Restaurant in a Second Tier Provincial City
Relive the classic days of Laurel & Hardy, the Keystone Cops, and The Three Stooges by paying good money to dine at the opening night of Happy Apollo Italian Westaurant in Yantai City. Chuckle as the waiters try to serve food even though the management forgot to purchase any plates, guffaw as the cashier is forced to prostitute herself in a feeble effort to get her hands on some change, and roar hysterically as the Spaghetti Bolognese turns out to be a cardboard baozi covered in sand. Then weep, weep untold tears of salty misery, as you realise you’ve been waiting three hours and still haven’t seen a menu.

September 21st: 300 and something days to the Olympics
Go about your normal daily existence and do your best to ignore yet another fucking mediocre Government sponsored pop concert in order to celebrate 300 and something more days to the fucking Olympics.

September 23rd: Sunny Hotel Dinner Buffet
Enjoy an uninspired Chinese buffet in a three star Chinese hotel with no economic discounts or benefits whatsoever in a hope that the management still decides to place their advertising with Sinocidal Magazine next year.

September 24th: Cunt Cinema
The Beijing Bookworm will present a series of mostly French independent short films made by Europe’s best respected amateur cunts. This collection’s themes revolve predominantly around freedom of speech issues, women’s rights, and cunts. All cunts welcome. English subtitles for the cunt impaired.

September 30th: Labourer Holiday
Are you aged between 12 and 80? No plans for the National Day holiday? Then why not go on a working Labourer’s Holiday?
– Learn all about carrying a bucket full of dirt!
– Earn at least 17 yuan!
– Free instant noodle and steamed bun meals!*
– Free cigarettes for all mine workers!*
– Free police supervision!*
– Complete privacy as you enjoy your Labourer’s Holiday (Road will be closed to its own residents)!
BOOKING NOW ALL ACROSS THE PRC!
*Not free.

***

Whilst Sinocidal Magazine tries its best to ensure all event listings are correct and complete at time of publication, Sinocidal Magazine cannot guarantee that locations, times, names, national boundaries, and even the laws of physics will not change before due dates. Please forward all complaints to http://web.archive.org/web/20071026154207/http://www.pekingduck.org/.